sutures
by oneandother
Summary: And you wake screaming. Was this really what you had fought for? Adheres to canon, post DH harryginny & hogwarts. Reviews'd be mad cool. :
1. part one

**disclaimer: **still young, still poor, still not JK.

**a/n:** I hope you like it. :)

PART ONE.

_ '...the hill still left to climb is just so _high_,'- jack's mannequin_

_

* * *

_

You've got four scars in the palms of both of your hands- two raised perforated lines and eight perfect pink crescents in total- that you've given yourself. They're still a little raw now, and ache deep inside to the touch and they're on _your_ hands and you can't make them go away. No amount of washing and scrubbing and wishing will make the smooth pink 'u's go away, and even if you couldn't see them there you would still feel them, anyway.

They're etched far further than skin deep; scratched into where you scratched them yourself, in a darkened classroom with nothing but your tears and your blood and your ragged breathing and the raising of someone else's wand and flashes of light and-

It hurt.

It was flash after flash after flash of bright light and, '_Where is 'e, d'you 'onestly fink we dunno that you know where the bugger is?!!',_ and you being thrown around like a doll with your blood rolling off your fingers and _drip drop_-ing onto the floor as you clenched your fists tighter and tighter and tighter so that you wouldn't scream.

And some other times it was in the courtyard, and you were surrounded by people but you were still alone because those people were jeering Slytherins and mocking Hufflepuffs and were sorry excuses for people anyway, but this time it was you and his wand and his breath in your face and, '_Don't you bloody fink I'm not gonna do your pretty lil' face in if you don't say nuffin', girl... 'ats all you got, anyway, eh? Bleedin' deaf, dunt talk a'all... Muggle lovin' family...jus' a pretty lil' face, yeah?"_

There would usually be some sort of jinx from his wand a few even from the crowd but you would still be standing there, hands in the pockets of your robe and one eyebrow defiantly raised because you weren't going to yell or cry or _break down_ in front of that lot. But the blood pools in your pockets and you want to say,

'_Mute_. _Mute. That's the word for when you don't talk, dipshit, not deaf_,' even though there's no point because he would probably only catch every fourth word (or third if he's feeling particularly astute) of that anyway, and it would just be another sectumpsempra to the arm or leg for you.

But most of the time, it was just you and your nightmares, full colour movie reels of bright lights and long faces and a world where no one was real and there was blood everywhere and teeth and tears and pictures of handsome boys with green eyes on graves and a Weasley family plot and dead first years and hooded faces and dementors and crescent marked palms of hands and red hair and scars and blood and tears and blood and sweat and blood and lurking in corridors and blood and-

"Ginny!"

You sit up with a start and tear your eyes away from the fire, glancing around and blinking the sleep that was forming away from your eyes. Hermione Granger is standing behind the couch, looking uncertainly at you as she twists her fingers this way and that, this way and that.

She looks different- her face is skinnier and longer than you remember, her hair is tied sloppily into a bun on the top of her head, and her clothes are ripped, and she is splashed with blood. There are dark circles around her eyes and there are lines inside the circles, and her fingernails are long and lined with dirt.

"Hermione Granger," the words slip out before you can stop them, because you're sitting on the couch with your head turned to look at a girl who you haven't seen for over a _year_, and you're not entirely sure who this stranger is. You're not on first name basis.

She looks surprised for a moment, then comes around the couch to look at you with thousands of expressions flickering across her features at lightning speed. Confusion, happiness, sadness, concern, worry, fear, pity.

And you don't want her pity, not one bit. Because growing up in a family with too many siblings and not enough money, you've learnt not to bother wanting things you do not need, and you do _not_ need pity.

"How're you feeling?" You ask groggily, and your voice is hoarse from yelling and exhaustion as you move your feet off the couch so she can sit next to you. She opens her mouth and then closes it again, and shakes her head. Once, twice. Three times. She doesn't speak.

"Wha-?"

"Your _hands_!!" You stare blankly at her and blink. Once, twice. Three times. She comes closer and touches your wrist delicately, and then recoils as though thinking better of it.

"What's wrong with your _hands_, Ginny?! Sweet Merlin-" she looks down at your hands and your eyes flick down to them too.

"Oh." That's when you see it, dark and sticky, oozing out of your subconsciously formed fists and staining the floral upholstery of the couch, and you wince at the stinging as you unstick your nails from the reopened perforations on your hands.

Hermione is sobbing now, and you think for a moment that it should really be _you_ crying, because they are _your_ hands after all, but after all the sleepless nights and tears you've already shed, you're not sure that you _can_ actually cry anymore.

So you flex your hand a little, and Hermione makes a strangled noise and stares, horrified, as you wipe your hands on your already grimy jeans and reach out to give her a hug. She gasps, twice; two ragged inhalations of tears and air and _life_, as she wordlessly steps into your hug, and you close your bloodied hands behind her back, just at the shoulderblades. Again you are met with some hesitation in your head- this girl is surely a stranger because the Hermione Granger you know would _not_ willing touch someone with bloodied hands and open wounds without fixing them up, first- but push it away.

Confused, hazy Ginny Weasley of the aftermath is replaced for a little while by the strong and resilient Ginny Weasley of the DA, and the adrenaline kicks in as Hermione sobs into your shoulder and you stand there, patting her on the back and 'shooshing' her and trying to get her to calm down. But it doesn't work and you take the two steps back to the couch and scoot the cushions over to where your blood is _not_ and sit her down.

But she doesn't stop, only pausing to draw great rugged gasping breaths and sniffs, but her head collapses onto her knees and you know there's nothing that you can do. So you sit there. And you wait.

And you will yourself not to fall to sleep again because there might be other people- injured or the shocked or maybe other members of the DA- who will need you.

"Gin?" You know that voice. Perhaps a little deeper and a little rougher than you remember it to be, but you _know_ that voice.

"Ron. Ron. _Ron,_" you suck in air _fast_ as you look at your brother, and he offers you the shadow of one of his typical goofy grins- full of teeth and as big as his face will handle- and sweeps you into a hug so tight it hurts.

"Ow, Ron, gerrof, that bloody _canes_!" Your voice sounds far too light to be existing in this strange aftermath, and you swat Ron away almost playfully. You scold yourself internally, because he looks _so_ tired and so in need of a hug.

"Well, sorry, Gin, but I think this is an occassion where you _can_ be seen with your brother in-"

But you cut him off as you hug him, this time, tight around his chest as his hair grazes the top of your head and you are certain you feel some wetness land in your hair. But his time, it is he who pushes you away, presumably because he's spotted Hermione crying in great wracking sobs on the couch, and he jumps the back of the couch to sit next to her, pulling her head onto his shoulder and wrapping an arm around her neck, and she cries into his singed tee-shirt. He looks to you with big sad eyes, just as lined and circled as Hermione's, and you nod briskly, understanding perfectly.

"I'll go look for... I'll...I'll... see you tomorrow, Ron," you say quietly, and turn to walk out the portrait hole. You take a few steps and are about to push the painting open when his voice stops you.

"He's in the kitchens, Gin. He was looking for you."

You turn to look at him, frankly amazed that he knew what you were talking about, and nod, managing a small smile that he returns half heartedly.

Then you turn around and keep walking and don't look back.

* * *

_'see no shadows, 'cos the shadow's all there is.'_

**end A/N:** it's short, I know. Update'll be soon. Reviews'd be great (I like amalgamating words). Also, quotes at beginning and end is are from Bloodshot by Jack's Mannequin. Listen to it.


	2. part two

**disclaimer: **nah-uh. Nor am I a member of TPC.

**a/n:** Merry Christmas everyone! It's the morning of Christmas eve down here (it's about five in the morning- I know, slight insomniac tendencies!), and I wish you all a super rad Christmas and a great year to come. Wow, that was cheesy. Anyway. Thanks to anyone who reviewed/alerted. Ohkay, onwards. Enjoy. Review. :)))

PART TWO.

'_In the night, we're running barefoot, you and I,'- tokyo police club._

* * *

You find yourself walking to the kitchens, despite telling yourself that you shouldn't, that you should find your family and make sure they are okay, first. But you're walking along the corridors and dodging crying and laughing (laughing? _now_?) families and couples and jumping over crushed statues and avoiding ghosts and holding yourself and shivering a little as you walk past the great gaping holes in the wall where the night is coming in and the cold air is freezing you to the bone, and it hits you.

He has no one. He's saved everyone, but he's the one sitting alone in the kitchens now, while even the house-elves dance and march about the grounds and everyone tries their best to cope with the aftermath. It's ironic. And your thoughts are filled with ones of him as you hurtle through the corridors and down the stairs towards him, longing to find him and sit with him and soak in his warmth and pour some of yours onto him, to just _be_, because that's everything you need right now and probably all he does, too. You stumble down the stairs leading into the Great Hall as you jump the trick steps, but you keep running even though you are not sure why, through the families and friends and cheer in the Great hall until you reach the painting of the fruit bowl, and you tickle the pear with a shaking finger still caked in blood. Even the pear seems giddy as it wriggles into a door handle, and you take a deep breath as you open the door.

You exhale slowly. This is it.

"Hi."

He's sitting with his back to you, all matted black hair and stooped shoulders, and your voice is surprisingly clear in the empty room, bouncing off the walls and thrown back at you.

You cautiously approach the table at which he sits, and he still doesn't turn around. There's something in those bent shoulders and utter stillness that disconcerts you- that's not the Harry you know, and it's freaking you out.

"Harry, it's me," you say in the quiet voice you usually reserve for injured first years, not daring to come any closer. He coughs.

"Harry."

He coughs again, and you notice that he is trembling, ever so slightly. You want to reach out and hold his hand and touch him, but there's something hanging in the air between you, and you can't place it.

Maybe it's anger. Maybe it's disappointment. It could be those things and more; it could be those things and perhaps many things worse. For a fleeting second your heart stops as you think that maybe things are broken between you two and maybe that's the reason it feels so strange, because you've been away for so long and you haven't spoken and you thought he was _dead_.

You run a rand through your tangled hair, almost out of habit, but you flinch a little as your hair catches on some of the encrusted blood on your hand and a bead of something warm and sticky rolls down your wrist and onto the floor. You tie your hair up after that, bunching it into a ponytail atop your head as you wait for _something_, anything.

"Ginny..." he breathes quietly and quite suddenly into the silence. You start and inch a little closer to the table. He still doesn't turn around.

"Erm... you...you still there?" his voice is louder now, and exactly how you remember it- clear and deep and gentle- but you can hear the voice of a frightened little child Harry nestled deep inside the words.

"Yeah," you reply, "Yeah, Harry, still here."

He swallows loudly and you feel as though your heart might break for him, sitting there like a shepherd who has become completely redundant as his flock of loyal sheep frolic and play outside, his years of work and guidance all but forgotten.

"Can I... Can I come sit next to you?" You struggle to keep your voice at a normal tone and pitch, because the Harry _you_ know would not want to be spoken to like he was delicate; breakable.

His shoulders square and freeze for a second, before they drop.

"Yeah," he says, "D'you think you could?"

You blink and steel yourself, feeling your heart beat against your chest in sorrow for the boy, who is sitting so quietly and scrunched up that he looks like he wants to disappear into the table and never be seen again. This isn't how it was meant to be, not after what he's done.

You breathe. In and out, in and out.

Then you go around the table and pull the plastic seat closer to his, and he turns to look at you. You clutch the edge of your seat so hard that your knuckles whiten, as you bite your lip and exhale sharply.

The nightmares come flooding into you and all you see is his face painted onto snow dusted grave just atop his birthdate and some date months ago, swimming before you. You see memorial statues with his hair and burning effigies and torn photographs with him missing and newspaper obituaries and-

"Ginny."

You blink.

And you see him. Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived and the boy-who-saved-the-world.

He's still the same, all delicate jawline and perfectly straight nose and teeth and beautiful green eyes and long fingers folded into his lap and pink lips and lightning bolt scar. But he's also long and matted hair, hollowed out cheeks, dark and bloodshot eyes. Long fingernailed and covered in dirt, and he's still everything you remember him to be but not, at the same time. He's _Harry_, and he's sitting right in front of you and you cannot believe it.

You reach out a shaking hand to touch him, to make sure that this isn't one of those nightmares where he is going to lean in to kiss you but then disappear at the last second, only to reappear in a coffin at his own funeral. But your fingers make contact with his muddied and bloodied jacket, and he's not leaning in to kiss you, and there is certainly neither coffin nor funeral.

Your fingers remain on his shoulder for a second before he seems to crumble beneath them and pulls you into a hug. You hug him back, your fingers spread across his back and his hands pressing into yours, and you swallow as you sit like that for a moment, and you smell him. Once upon a time, when he had been prince charming to your princess, he had smelt distinctly _Harry_; like parchment and soap and the leather of quaffles and some sort of aftershave and _boy_.

But now he smells like dirt and blood and sweat and weariness and all things that do not seem to match who he is.

Although, sitting there, you don't know if his being prince charming to your princess is something that exists only in 'once upon a time'.

The minutes pass as you sit there, next to each other, fingers interlaced and arms pressed together, side by side in the kitchens of Hogwarts as the wizarding world rejoices. You can just imagine them outside, laughing and talking and crying- '_but where is Harry Potter?'_

And he's sitting next to you, doing that thing where his fingers, long and lithe, dance across the back of your hand seemingly subconsciously, and your hand tingles.

"I'm sorry," he says suddenly, "I'm so sorry about Fred."

You gulp and a new pain- like an iron hand gripping and clenching and twisting round your heart- flashes through your chest and you breathe, "..._Fred_."

"He was such a good bloke," Harry seems to be aiming to get all the words filling up his chest out into the open in a hurry, tripping over his own words as they spill out and into the air, "And he didn't deserve it. And Lupin and _Tonks_. Tonks! And they've just had the baby, y'know... and he's going to grow up to be like me-"

"Oh, Harry," you begin, but you're cut off as he continues, stammering.

"And _Fred_, Fred was two years older than me and he was going to start a joke shop and none of this would have happened if it wasn't for me because I should have made everyone leave- it should have just been me and Voldemort and that would have saved _so _many people," he's speaking in run-on sentences now, and is breathing quite shallowly as he turns to look at you, eyes tormented. You can see the names that he will not say flashing behind his eyes, haunting him.

_Mad Eye. Hedwig. Professor Burbage. Collin. Dobby. Ted Tonks. Snape._

"It's _my_ fault. And this year... I'm so sorry. For _everything_," he's shaking again, but you're not about to let go of his fingers, not when he is clutching yours so tightly and desperately the tips are starting to turn blue.

You don't need to hear this, not tonight at least. Rational thought leaves you and you pause. Then, you throw caution to the wind and decide that you don't need _this_, either, this cold and stuffy empty room filled with only your breaths and Harry's guilt. So you stand up and pull him up with you, and he's skinny and still a good inch or two taller than you, and you are glad to see he's not stooping any more, because that's just not _right_, and he clings to your fingers, still.

"What're we..." his voice falters as you open the door of the kitchens and walk outside, taking him with you. You cross the corridor and arrive in the Entrance Hall, where it is quiet and there's noone but a handful of Slytherins gathered in one corner, silent. They watch you pass and you nod at them. You take one step, two.

You reach the double doors.

"Ginny, what're we...?" you shrug, and open the doors, kicking off your shoes and leaving them in the archway. Harry looks confused for a second, but then there's a flicker of the Harry you know, hidden beneath the grime, and his worn and greying tennis shoes come off, too, and the two of you take off into the night, the cold air rushing over you, and consuming you.

And it's strange, because you're in the middle of all this debris and dust and a battlefield, but you're under the clear night sky and he is clutching still your hand oh-so tightly, but now he is holding it properly, not just grasping at the fingers, and it feels right.

You would almost say it felt good.

_

* * *

_

_'...broken hearts tesselate tonight.'_

**end a/n: **Chhhyeah, that's chapter two. Lyrics credit to Tesselate, Tokyo Police Club. Listen to it! S'good. Um, Merry Christmas again! Reveiws'd be rad. :)


	3. part 3

**disclaimer: **honestly, I'm not her. I'm not a member of manchester orchestra, either. sorry to disappoint you.

**a/n:** Ah, it's almost 2009. Can you believe it? Perhaps we'll all be building spaceships at night. If you're not a TPC fan, ignore that reference. Thanks to anyone who reviewed/alerted/favourited (!), you guys are brilliant. Ohkay. Well. I hope you all have a fantastic new year. Chhyeah- review if you read, please! :)

* * *

PART THREE.

_"...you told me this has always been worth living,"- manchester orchestra._

_--_

"...the ceremony itself will be at eleven o'clock and friends will follow the family to the graveyard, where there will be twenty white doves to be released-"

"_Doves_?!" Your own voice sounds strange as you almost shriek the word in disbelief. Beside you, Ron flinches at the sudden noise but otherwise nobody seems to hear you, and the funeral director continues to talk about doves and flowers and shiny brown oak coffins and processions.

'_That's my brother,_' you want to say, '_Not just some pretty box that we're putting into the ground. Not just something that we can let go of as easy as twenty white _doves!'

You want to stand up and bang your fist on the waxed wooden table and scream and shout and spit at the unflappable man in the impeccable dress robes, but you do not.

Instead, you say, "Fred didn't like doves."

Your mother turns to shush you but your father merely looks at you with his eyebrows raised, eyes wide. You shake your head as you feel your fingers clench into fists.

"Fred didn't like _doves_. He thought they were-"

"Poncey," You look around, half expecting the word to have come from George's mouth, but George isn't at the table, and George isn't speaking. As far as you know, he's upstairs in his room (not his and Fred's room- _his_ room now) with a box of photographs and and empty stomach and eyes that will not cry. Instead, you see Percy; ramrod straight Percy with red rimmed eyes and tousled hair, looking straight at you with his lip in between his teeth.

"She's right," Percy says, "Fred didn't like doves, because he thought they were far too... pretentious. He wouldn't... it doesn't _fit_ to be releasing _doves_ in his honour, because he didn't even _like_ them. Fred would hate that, it's _wrong_, completely _wrong-_"

"And _what_ would you know? You haven't been around for the past two years, how would you know if Fred liked doves or not, eh? You wouldn't! You wouldn't effing know because you weren't here, and now that you've come back, look what's happened-" Bill is incensed, yelling like there is no tomorrow and glaring at Percy with the utmost contempt, an ugly look of hatred on his face. And you are confused because Bill never yells, but there he is- towering over Percy and the funeral director, who has the grace to blush and excuse himself.

"Bill."

Your father runs a hand over his face, his tone warning.

Bill acts like he doesn't hear and instead carries on his tirade against Percy.

"And now that you've come back- when we didn't _want_ you back- did it ever occur to you that we didn't want you back anymore, _Percival_?' Bill's voice is dripping with venom, bouncing off the pots and pans in the kitchen and reverberating in your chest, his words not quite making perfect sense as they spill out of his mouth and crash into each other in the tense air.

"That maybe we were better off without you? Because, I mean, we are- as soon as you come back Fred dies. Fred DIES! And it's your fault, you know? You killed him, you _kill-_"

"SHUT UP!" You stand up now, hands clenched into the all too familiar position and your throat dry as you yell. Finally, everyone turns to look at you, even Ron, albeit with a strangely contorted expression of bewilderment on his still swollen face.

"SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP! There are bigger things than you two going on, you know? Our _brother's_ _died_! And what, all _you_-" you look at Bill, "- can do is talk about how _he_ left? We know that he left, for Merlin's sake! We were here too, you know! But he's back now, and regardless of whether or not he returned, Fred still would've died. The battle didn't start because of Percy, Bill! So stop blaming him because it's only making things worse! There are _bigger_ problems than you two, you know!"

Bill blinks.

"I can't do this," he says, "I can't do this right now with all of you... with _him_."

He looks pointedly at Percy, and then at you, and makes toward the coat stand to retrieve his coat and hat.

"Oh, don't bother," you say contemptuously, wrenching open the back door, "I'll go."

You apparate with a crack.

---

Green. Everything you see around you is green and bright and vibrant, and you take in air, hoping to smell the clean and fresh tartness that you associate with the colour green, but instead, you smell sweat. And blood and earth and dust and _death_.

You whip around, hair flying about you. Sunlight filters in through the trees above you (but it is not warm- why isn't it warm?), tinting your skin and clothes a pale green, and in the distance a bird twitters. The forbidden forest, you decide, following the path of rock and ash that has been blasted from the castle and formed a Hansel and Gretel like trail over the thick moss on the ground. You follow the trail without really meaning to, and wonder if, like the children in the muggle fairy tale, there is something sinister waiting for you at the end of it. You are not sure at which point in your walk you begin to run- jumping over stones and sticks and fallen trees- and you are not sure why. All you know is that you run and run and run, despite the aching in your lungs and the stitch in your side, until the trail leads you to what was once the side fence of the castle, now ripped and crumpled into two.

You run your fingers along the fence as you wonder what on _earth_ you are doing, creeping back into your ruined school at three o'clock in the afternoon in your pajamas and with no plans to return home. You step in through the gap in the stone and find yourself in the courtyard, picking through the debris, looking for something- _anything_- that has remained the same.

But nothing has. Everything that you see is brown and blasted and ripped in two, and you feel your stomach turn and throat constrict as your eyes land on a dark red stain in the middle of the courtyard, disgustingly and horribly bright against the blasted earth. You wrench your eyes away and keep walking- around the fallen stone pillars and up to the fountain, which is still standing in the far east quadrant of the courtyard in all it's bronze glory. You walk closer to the fountain, intrigued that all the perfectly carved figures (Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor) are still intact, despite the ruin around them.

You draw closer still. Five steps, four steps, three steps-

You gasp.

They are _not_ intact- the faces of the two female founders have been scratched and scorched off by angry wands, parts of shiny ears and eyes sitting in the bottom of the still-flowing fountain. Again you feel knots forming in your gut, for the statues had always looked so _real_ and lifelike that now it feels like you are looking at actual human corpses, ruined and dishonoured. Then your eyes land on Godric Gryffindor.

And your stomach gives in and you throw up against the bell of the fountain.

The bronze body is mangled and torn, the eyes ripped out of the sockets and arms and legs slashed almost beyond recognition. There is a hole where the heart of the real Godric Gryffindor would have beat, and one of the ears is missing. Everything on the statue is horribly disfigured; grotesque, save for one square inch on the statue's forehead, where there is carved a lightning bolt scar.

You collapse against the fountain, silent and shaking, eyes wide and head spinning as you tremble. You sit there as the afternoon sky fades into night and the sounds of creatures in the forest grow louder and more frantic. You wonder if there is anyone looking for you, but decide that if there wasn't, you wouldn't really care. Sitting in the dim courtyard with nothing but the light of your wand and the mangled remains of the founders statue, you find yourself replaying every vivid and violent memory of the battle in your head, the images moving slowly and painstakingly, the sound whirring in your ears. And you see the Great Hall, and you see Fred lying on the floor, frozen. And you see him again and again and again and again and again and you wonder if you are cracked because you are acting like a broken record- rewinding and replaying, rewinding and replaying, rewinding and replaying...

But still, you see Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred... and Harry?

There's a pair of green eyes dancing in the dark before you, and the matching head of messy hair and pale skin. You sit for a second.

"Harry?"

Your eyes rake his hairline and you find what you are looking for- the lightning bolt scar- and the image of Godric Gryffindor flashes in your head and you throw up, again.

"No no no no no no no no...." you moan, clutching your head in your hands, "No no no no no _no_."

You hear a sharp intake of breath and then feel a pair of arms encircle you, and hear Harry's voice in your ear.

"Come on," he says, slowly, pushing back your hair, "Let's get you home."

And you wonder how he can be so strong when everything, _everything_, is wrong beyond repair.

And you wish that you could be, too.

* * *

'_but what's really worth living anymore?'_

**end a/n:** Um, I don't think JK ever actually mentioned there being a fountain at Hogwarts, but I think you guys can cope. :) So yeah. Happy New Year (again)! Reveiws'd be loved. Oh, and did any other Sydney siders see that super awesome simulated thunder storm on the last night (year!)? Pretty mad cool, huh? Oh yes, and beginning and end quotes from Manchester Orchestra's _Sleeper 1972_. Listen.


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